


The Fox and the Beast

by Vayar



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bromance, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Double Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Graphic Violence, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor Lucien Vanserra, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23227324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vayar/pseuds/Vayar
Summary: Lucien the extravert adopts Tamlin the introvert on a boring party. Centuries-spanning albeit slightly dysfunctional friendship ensues.----------------------------------------------As the red-haired male turned to hand him the wine, that rogue grin appearing once again, Tamlin realised their battle of impressions was over. And he was now prisoner of war."My name is Lucien. Pleasure to meet you.""The pleasure is mine."-----------------------------------------------Canon-compliant, pre-canon and (hopefully) eventually post-aCoWaR-canon. Spoilers for aCoTaR, aCoMaF and aCoWaR. First arc completed! Warnings: canon-typical violence.
Relationships: Jesminda/Lucien Vanserra, Tamlin & Lucien Vanserra
Comments: 16
Kudos: 22





	1. Prologue

Tamlin had been doing his best to please his father these past few months. It hadn't been enough, apparently.

He still got dragged here, to the Autumn Court's Cauldron-forsaken celebration. Countless faerie from all courts swirled by, dancing, drinking and making good use of all the nooks and crannies where two bodies could fit. So far no one has paid him any attention — a small mercy.

As a son of the High Lord of the Spring Court, Tamlin had known from the start he wouldn't be so lucky to be left alone all night. And he was soon proved right.

It might have been his fault, though. 

Tamlin couldn't help but admire one courtier's skill as the male excused himself expertly from a nearby conversation-turned-political debate, dispersing the heavy mood in the process. But then, as if sensing Tamlin's attention, the courtier's russet eyes turned to him. 

Battles were fought with words and impressions here — and Tamlin knew he would lose that one as soon as he opened his mouth. So he bared his teeth, letting the beast's canines show, and willed the gravest of warnings into his glare. 

The male grinned at him.

Oh, that rogue grin spoke trouble. And the gleam in those eyes, wickedness impersonified. Tamlin groaned. 

The courtier was doubtlessly Autumn Court with that flame-red hair arranged in dandy braids and brown eyes glowing impishly like molten bronze. But it was his sun-kissed skin added to the mix that sparked Tamlin's recognition. One of Beron's many sons. He would be damned if he remembered their names. 

"You must be Tamlin of the Spring Court."

A disdainful snarl seemed like the safest answer. "And you are?"

"Not here to mock you," Beron's son replied with a wink. "You aren't particularly fond of parties, are you?" 

"No." The red-haired Fae looked at him expectantly. Tamlin corrected himself: "No, I am not." 

The male barked a laugh. "Clearly. Care for a drink?" He did not wait for a reply. 

Truth be told, Tamlin did. He just didn't know how to summon a waitress. All his attempts would do was scare them away.

He certainly did not know how to snare the faerie woman at the other end of the hall with a smile so charming she ignored all the other courtiers on her way to them. Nor how to pick up two glasses half-filled with sparkling wine without even looking in their direction — because Beron's son's eyes were quite busy undressing the waitress. And how he remembered to secure the tray as she leaned into him was entirely beyond Tamlin.

He might have gaped. A little.

Whatever profanities Beron's son whispered into the waitress's pointed ear sent her scurrying away, her long, spotted tail wagging behind her excitedly.

As the red-haired male turned to hand him the wine, that rogue grin appearing once again, Tamlin realised their battle of impressions was over. And he was now prisoner of war. 

"My name is Lucien. Pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfiction ever, as well as the first thing possibly qualifying as writing I've created in English. Hence please have NO mercy on me if I make any sort of linguistic errors. 
> 
> Any feedback is welcome!


	2. Young and Wild and Free

Tamlin resented being called back home from the border war camp. Hadn't it been for his mother's letters his father always sent out with orders, he might have disobeyed.

For her only would he dress up in those stiff, ornate clothes befitting a son of the High Lord of the Spring Court and feign a smile that wouldn't become genuine until she stole him to walk with her through sprawling rose gardens of their country estate. Then and there, he would truly be home.

If he lived through this solstice party, that is. 

Which seemed more unlikely by the hour. 

Even with glamour set firmly in place, there was no hiding from his brothers' instincts, and he knew all too well they roared Tamlin was a threat. His own had pretty much the same opinion of them. However, his was probably right.

Eiril and Danar had been observing him the whole evening, both circling him like vultures a dying animal. Dying — that's what he might be by the break of dawn. And for hours after, if they so willed. He would never — could never — forget what Eiril's claws could do to a body. Or how much Danar enjoyed it. 

Father was conveniently absent, Tamlin's war-band not invited. It was his battle. One he had to fight alone, much as he did not want to. 

Dusk approached, the setting sun casting fiery reflections on the darkening sky, its golden rays planting goodbye kisses on the grass and leaves. Music floated in the air, playful wind moved swathes of vividly coloured ribbons hung on tree branches and bushes. Tamlin had little hope of joining the musicians with his fiddle tonight. 

He got away from the fountain where he'd been sitting and brooding these past hours before a ring of dancers could form and trap him inside. His father’s people — his people — needn't be part of what was to happen. 

Still, Tamlin stayed well in everyone's sight in his chosen spot, perched atop a fifteen feet tall pergola jutting out in the midst of the celebration grounds. He had no death wish, and provoking Eiril and Danar by stalking off alone would be just that. Not that he knew how inheritance disputes were solved — would they fight him here? Or simply request he yielded the title?

Advantageous position could give him just the time he needed to explain himself, if his brothers would be inclined to listen.

"I don't want our father’s crown. I'm a soldier, and content to be one," he repeated quietly. He could not afford to screw this up. "The power given to me is for protecting our people and you, has always been. I will serve." 

Then the sun was gone, and all the warm colours of the world with it — save for a solitary speck of auburn hair meandering swiftly through the swarming crowd. Closing up on the pergola. Tamlin's chest tightened. He had hoped his friend would be wise enough to heed his warning. 

Yet as always, Lucien made a point to screw all wisdom. And, unexpectedly, fashion drew the short stick as well this time, if a loose black shirt and a tasteless golden butterfly mask he wore were any indication. 

"What are you doing here?" Tamlin hissed at him from above. 

"I recall receiving an invitation. From no one else but you. No need to thank me for coming, I wouldn't have stayed at Autumn anyway," Lucien said as he made to climb the flower-covered trellis. 

" _I_ " — Tamlin seethed, "—recall sending you a note _forbidding_ you to come!" 

"This one?" Lucien halted his climb six feet below the top and produced a piece of folded paper from his pocket. Then made a show of burning it to ashes. " _Don't you dare show that cheeky face of yours at our Solstice_ , right? See?" He pointed at the ridiculous mask. "Done. Still, I can read between the lines, Tam."

"I _do not write_ between the lines!" But anger had already left him. "Doesn't matter. Get away from here. Now." 

"How?" 

"I don't care. Winnow. Run. Just be gone. You are not welcome here today." 

Eiril had already sensed an opening in Tamlin's defence and was approaching quickly. Lucien followed his friend's line of sight and resumed scaling the trellis, faster this time. Ripped flowers fell to the ground from under his boots. "That's why you're up there," he panted. "Clever. I bet Eiril won't deign to climb in these tight pants of his." 

Tamlin snorted, amused despite himself. "I'm not so sure. Get behind me. And watch out for Danar." His middle brother would be close too. Observing. Ready to battle the victor, if battle is what they came for. Or join in at the right moment. 

Loud festive music floated up to the massive pergola, pale bonfires surrounding it in concentric circles. Between danced the faerie of the Spring Court, their drunken merriment providing a surrealistic, distressingly inappropriate background for this confrontation.

His eldest brother's expression twisted into a hateful snarl as his position forced him to look _up_ to where Tamlin stood. _Cauldron boil me_. He'd failed to take this into consideration while picking this place in the morning.

"Aren't you acting a bit childish, little brother?" 

Tamlin steeled his features and voice into that of a commander. "I don't want our father’s crown."

"Perfect," Eiril sneered. "This sets the tally of people who want to see you with it at zero. Would you come down now?" 

"One, actually," Lucien had the gall to say. "And as for coming down, I'm afraid the answer is no."

Eiril's claws snapped out as he snarled at Lucien. "And who, by the Cauldron, are _you_?"

The mask, Tamlin realised. That garish mask a son of Beron would never deign to wear. He'd left his hair unbraided. And that nondescript black tunic. No wonder Eiril did not recognise him. Perhaps — just maybe — Lucien knew what he was doing. Unlike Tamlin. 

His friend nudged him pointedly. "Play along, please." The whisper was barely audible even to Tamlin. 

"I invited him. You've got a problem with that?" 

_Too bold_ , Lucien's sole communicated as he dug it into Tamlin's foot. The wooden construction groaned in protest — Tamlin did as well, but not so loudly. 

Eiril's eyes narrowed to hateful slits. Oh, he was so pissed off already. "No, of course not. Do whatever you fancy with him up there, O King of the Flowery Mountain. Though I was blessed not to know your tastes run in such... unnatural directions. But what a brilliant rumour it would make. And if it were to reach that pathetic band of yours... " 

"You sure are one to speak, Eiril," Lucien cut in. "Sweet Kiaran might be hurt to hear his tastes are..." — Lucien made a meaningful pause — "...unnatural, as you yourself said?" 

Eiril flinched, took a hesitant step back, even, before he reined in his emotions and stilled. Yet even Tamlin understood his brother had revealed much, too much. Who could this Kiaran be? The easiest answer seemed absurd, absolutely unbelievable. But what if... ? 

Eiril let out a low growl, air twisting around him as the beast inside pushed for a way out. "You have no right knowing this, Lucien Vanserra."

So much for Lucien's incognito. It did not throw his friend off-kilter, though. 

"Some would say Kiaran has no right to climb into your parents' bedroom half-naked and yet... he currently does. Or will shortly."

For once in their lives Tamlin and Eiril saw eye to eye; neither could comprehend what Lucien was talking about. 

"Good thing I learned of this in advance and already sent an explanatory letter to your father," he continued. " _The boy got misleading directions to Eiril's room_ , something like that. And I might have dropped your mother a warning note earlier today. She would have been in for quite a shock otherwise."

Eiril came to first. And roared with evil laughter as only a Fae with a beast under his skin could. "You had me for a moment. But Kiaran is no fool. And you — both of you, kids — are not walking away from this."

Tamlin let out a vicious snarl of his own, but Lucien wouldn't hide behind him. Beron's youngest son just grinned at Eiril, utterly undeterred by an explicit threat of if not death, then a serious trashing at least. 

"No fool," Lucien repeated with a sneer. "Unless a certain very convincing somebody planted this brilliant little idea in his blonde head. I'm risking his wrath to warn you and what do I get?" 

Eiril blanched. Then threw a last hateful glower at Tamlin. And _ran_.

* * *

For a while after his brother disappeared in the crowd Tamlin stood utterly still, eyes locked on the last place where he had seen Eiril. Rosehall loomed far in the distance, the distant woods flanking its gardens but a dark line on the horizon.

He blinked as Lucien tossed his golden mask to the crowd, eliciting a joyous cheer from the lucky catcher. 

"You're welcome." 

Was that a _purr_? 

Tamlin turned to stare at his friend: a speck of flamy hair stark against curtains of flowers, mischevious delight gleaming in his russet eyes.

It wouldn't have taken Eiril a minute to rip Lucien to shreds. But that minute he didn't have to spare.

Too valiant for his own good. Every inch of Lucien spoke of a born courtier, even if he got a peculiarily uneven haircut, put on a black tunic clearly not the same set with maroon pants, and was coated in flower petals. 

Lucien sat down, letting his legs dangle over the rose-adorned edge. Tamlin joined him gingerly, mindful of the delicate wooden frame below not designed to support the weight of two grown-up males.

The movement gave his dumbfounded mind much-needed time to process what had happened. 

"So, did you actually do all those things?" he asked finally. 

"I did. Call it an investment. Next time I need to bluff my way out of here your charming brother won't dare check me, I hope." 

This spurred on another question. "What if he doesn't make it in time to stop Kiaran?" 

Lucien tried, and failed, to supress a laugh. "See, this was Rhysand's price. He insisted he be right there to witness all of it."

Of course Lucien would have known Rhys. And neither bothered to let him in on it. 

Tamlin couldn't prevent a smile that tugged at his lips from showing. "Reckless fools. Both of you." 

Lucien glanced at him. And burst into yet another fit of wild laughter. "Your mother..." — he managed to say between raspy breaths. "Rhysand..." 

"My mother what?" Tamlin's mirth was gone in an instant. If Lucien targeted his mother in one of his pranks, Tamlin would kill him. 

Lucien waved his hand, asking for a moment to calm down. "I just warned her a handsome male might intrude into her chambers tonight, remember?" 

Tamlin tipped his head back and roared his amusement into the starlit sky, Lucien momentarily joining in. Together, they laughted atop the pergola until their chests hurt, howled with glee so loud Rhys probably heard them wherever in Tamlin's parents' rooms he was hiding.

They didn't care.

Music played, faerie dallying, dancing, drinking and singing around the pale bonfires. Silken lanterns littered the plateau, mirrors to the stars on the clear night sky, and the two of them sat in between. Young and wild and free. 

If only that moment could last forever. 

But too many questions swarmed in Tamlin's head. How did Lucien learn about Eiril's male lover? He admitted to having plotted this with Rhys, were Rhys's daemati skills explanation enough? But then, what was he even doing away from the Night Court during the Solstice?

Before Tamlin could ask, his friend was already halfway down to the ground. 

"Where are you going?"

"There is a party down there, in case you haven't noticed. Care to join me?"

Truth be told, Tamlin did not. But he had known Lucien long enough to understand this wasn't really a question.


	3. Solstice Gift

If Tamlin lost Lucien in the crowd, it meant the red-haired male wanted him to. Parties were Lucien's natural habitat, he could navigate the deep waters of social intercourse even while too drunk to remember his name. Which he was well on the way to getting when Tamlin had seen him last.

He recalled distantly that it should have worried him. But the enchanted wine coursed in his veins too, urging him rather to join the dance, to let his hair down and lose himself in the music, to worship this holy shortest night while it lasted. So Tamlin did. 

And once he surrendered to that tug of the wild, unleashed solstice music, it became a thread to guide him through the party. No longer stumbling, no longer a stranger in the merry crowd. Magic pulsated through the ground under his feet; Tamlin could feel it converging, welling around the bonfires, eager to spring into the air as flame and smoke and embers. Around, drawn to it, High Fae and lesser faerie alike danced.

Tamlin's heart felt light as he joined hands with them — his people. Each dancing step purged his soul, anxiety melting away until the music filled him whole. Dampers on his powers long forgone, yet no one balked at him, and no one bowed. So long as the music lasted, he was free. 

When the next melody came to a close, musicians retiring and others joining in, Tamlin let go of the dance and turned towards Rosehall, towards his room on the second floor of the manor and the most personal of treasures he kept hidden there. The music had liberated him, granted him this brightness and joy. 

Now he wanted to be part of it. To share. 

Tamlin wasn't the only one walking away from the celebration proper, although one of the few to leave without company. Not that he hadn't been offered some. He refused all, alcohol smoothing dismissive words into polite refusals.

A greater need drove him tonight. 

The manor gardens were silent, tranquil, moonlight and starshine glistening on leaves and petals. Festive ribbons that the wind had carried away twisted and rustled, caught in tall hedges of nearly trimmed rose bushes, but could not escape thorns' grasp. Tamlin halted on his way to free some.

He encountered a few couples getting handsy on benches or half-hidden in flowery alcoves, the lovers too busy with each other to pay him any heed. Solstice music still reached here, but quieter, diminished somewhat. Silence and the cool night air helped clear his head.

It struck him then, the roaring of his instincts magic and alcohol could no longer override. Eiril and Danar were on the prowl, the former doubtless seeking retaliation for his and Lucien's little prank, and he, like a drunk fool he was, just walked off into a dark, nearly deserted hedge garden. 

Last drops of the wine evaporated from his system. And then, between one step and the next, the darkness was no longer warm and welcoming, peaceful silence turning ominous. A twig cracking under somebody's foot sent Tamlin running down the alleys, taking turns he knew by heart, his frantic mind looking for a way out — back to the celebration grounds.

 _No_. He wouldn't run. Wouldn't let his brothers ruin this night.

Wouldn't let them ruin _him_. 

Tamlin turned left on the next crossroads, aiming towards the centre of the garden where lay a fountain glade big enough for the three of them to shift and fight. If the night called for his brothers' blood, he would grant its wish. But his mother's precious roses stayed out of this. 

Danar must have predicted Tamlin's decision — as he always did — for they ran into each other in a shadowy alley adjacent to the central glade. Rose hedges opened into an arched gate to Tamlin's left, a soothing hum of the fountain beckoning to him from just a few steps away. But the right-angle turn was narrow, and his brother would be upon him before he made it. 

Danar looked Tamlin up and down, doubtless noticing the unbuttoned shirt, flushed cheeks and ruffled hair. His disdainful little smirk drew a growl from Tamlin. 

Claws snapped free, that beast feeding on his anger howling for a fight. Danar grinned, elongated canines catching moonlight, his claws out as well. They would settle it here, then. 

A female moan sounded from the fountain glade, closely followed by a splash and a giggle like the jingle of tiny bells.

The brothers halted. Both recognised that laughter. Danar probably knew the moan as well. 

Amarie. 

The fight postponed in wordless agreement, Tamlin and Danar stalked to the archway and peered inside. 

It was Amarie indeed — the Hybern noble lay sprawled on the fountain edge, her crimson skirts pulled up, exposing pale skin and a red lacy garter. Danar paled with fury at the sight. 

Amarie's obsidian-black hair was loose, half of it submerged in the fountain pool — likely what caused the splash. But the shirtless red-haired male kneeling between her legs — doubtless the cause of the moan — that was _Lucien_. 

Not even a heartbeat before both brothers shifted and pounced. Danar — on Lucien and Amarie, and Tamlin — on Danar. 

Two beasts collided and hit the grass with a thud that made the earth shudder. Snarling, jaws clapping, fangs shredding fur and skin and soft grass. Tamlin's initial momentum propelled them far from the fountain, from Lucien, and he fought to drive them further away as ferociously as he fought to emerge on top. 

And so soon, the movement stilled. A high-pitched female scream echoing the din in his head came to a halt only moments later, belatedly registering the fight was over. 

It took Tamlin even longer to comprehend. Despite the coppery tang of blood on his fangs embedded in his brother's neck, despite Danar's pained whine... He couldn't quite believe it had been so easy.

Tamlin released his brother's throat, yet did not remove his paw from where it rested on Danar's sternum, claws piercing skin. Numerous cuts and scratches healed on his brother noticeably more slowly, and his breathing was ragged. He was so... weak, in comparison.

Tamlin knew they both realised it now. With one last snarl, he let go and shifted back, turning to Amarie and Lucien.

Wide-eyed and gaping, they didn't move away from the fountain. Amarie had somehow fixed her dress and hair while screaming. And Lucien stood in front of her, half-naked and unarmed, but shielding her with his body.

The Hybern noble put a hand on his shoulder — an order to stand down he immediately obeyed, for it wasn't fear in her face anymore. Amarie was raging.

And not at Tamlin. 

Danar hardly had the time to shift back and sit before she was upon him. Still befuddled after the fight, he didn't notice her foot rising. Not until she stomped it down on him. 

Tamlin, Lucien and likely every male within a mile winced. 

Danar's yowl of pain long echoed in the soundproof shield Amarie put around the glade. And only then did the tongue-lashing begin. 

"How dare you attack _me_?! You beast!" She spit at his face. "You savage pig! You think your piss-poor love letters entitle you to me?!" Amarie tore a ruby pendant off her neck and chucked it at him. "Sell it and buy yourself a damned watch, _prick_." 

She turned to walk away, but then Danar's claws snapped out again. If only so he could dig his own grave with them. 

Tamlin had never seen a look so condescending as Amarie's, and he had been on the receiving end of plenty. "The puppy has claws now, then?" the female asked sweetly. "That's the reason you pester me? Because you can't use your own damned hand, eh?" 

Danar made to lunge at her, his power rallying, but Tamlin's was already there, shielding. Needlessly, as it turned out when his brother doubled over with pain and fell back on the ground. 

When Amarie spoke again, her voice was colder than winter. "You don't get to snarl at me." 

Tamlin shut his mouth too. 

But the Hybern lady had only smiles for him. "Your concern is appreciated, young lord. Thank you for your assistance." She even curtised, not a trace of the demon within showing, before turning to Lucien. "I regret we were interrupted." 

"The regret's all mine, lady." 

"Sadly, I'm not in the mood anymore. Have a pleasant solstice night, lords," the female said and winnowed away, Danar immediately following suit. 

Leaving Tamlin alone with Lucien in the ruined glade. 

"That went... well?"

"You're one crazy bastard, Lucien Vanserra." 

His friend sketched a bow. "At your service, young lord."

* * *

In the time Tamlin spent regrowing the grass in the glade, Lucien winnowed away to the party and brought back a bottle of red wine. He had only learned to winnow last year — and still showed off at every occasion. 

Smug as a fox let into a chicken coop, Lucien sat down at the fountain edge next to Tamlin, uncorked the bottle and took a swig from it. 

Despite the booze, his tone was serious. "Good you've handed Danar's ass to him, Tam. He will think twice before attempting to retaliate for tonight. But mind what you eat, I'd put nothing past them." 

Tamlin took the bottle from him. "What if he found you first?" 

Lucien let out an exasperated sigh. "He was too busy stalking you at the party, that's the point. Quit fussing."

Tamlin lifted his hands in defeat. Then shook his head, still disbelieving. "They were almost betrothed." 

"Your father probably thought so. Unfortunately for him, Amarie had no intention of ever marrying that jerk. And who could blame her?" 

"How do you know that."

"Have you tried talking to females? You'd know things."

Tamlin scowled at him. "That's not what I'm asking about and you know it. How did you know she would be here, waiting? And about Eiril's... ?"

"Not telling." 

" _Lucien_." 

His friend took the wine from him and drank deeply before answering. "I wouldn't growl at me if I were you, _Tamlin_. See, I know a handful of secrets now. Yours too."

"Mine?"

"How about a deal, Tam?" Lucien pointed at him with the bottle he'd just emptied. "You play the fiddle for me, and I consider telling you how I learned about it."

* * *

Lucien would not yield, so Tamlin finally led him to the manor through the labyrinthine gardens, watchful for his brothers on the way. By some Cauldron-granted miracle, neither appeared. 

He had to winnow them into his room, though, as the manor was bustling with guards in the wake of a daring break-in to the Lady's rooms. Lucien was curious who got caught; Tamlin would rather not know.

All his spare tunics hung loosely on Lucien's slender form, yet since "better than nothing" applied to his situation literally, the male didn't complain. Tamlin also handed him a hair brush — to his disappointment, Lucien not only did not bristle at the crude suggestion, but actually thanked him. Still, Tamlin didn't dare ask about the haircut. 

Only with that settled did he pick up the fiddle. 

He felt like a fool. 

"Go on. I already know you can play it." 

It just wasn't easy for him — baring that tender part of his soul where the music resided. All the basic festive melodies he should have known by muscle memory evaporated under Lucien's steady gaze, leaving him empty. Lost. 

"You don't have to, Tam, if you don't want to." 

The dam broke. Tamlin closed his eyes, fixed the fiddle under his chin and lifted the bow. 

And played. Let his heart guide his hands, compose a symphony of love and gratitude for the friendship unasked for, but cherished. Then he let the joy join in and resonate on the strings, felt himself smile — and knew without opening his eyes that his friend smiled too. Each prank and foolery they laughed themselves hoarse over, today's little victories now reverberated in each confident sweep of the bow. 

And it felt _right_. 

Tamlin played, untired, his secret safe behind soundproof shields, until the first rays of the rising sun filled the room with brightness. 

Then he halted and inhaled deeply before opening his eyes to the new day. And to his closest friend. 

Lucien sat perched on the edge of Tamlin's bed, beaming joyously, the red of his hair highlighted by the sun, eyes sparkling like the enchanted wine. 

He shook his head disbelievingly, still smiling, glanced between Tamlin and the fiddle and back again, then said, "I caught a Suriel." 


	4. A Fool's Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly important: I've decided to update the rating of this work to mature. I'm not sure where the line between teen and mature lies, but I'd rather be on the safe side.
> 
> Chapter warnings: tags are there for a reason.

Tamlin's right-hand claws sliced the air, missing their target by a hair's breadth. A knife in his left was already rising to parry his opponent's impending riposte.

Slash, advance, low kick. The other male evaded graciously, laughing, and launched his own offensive.

They knew each other's tells by heart, limbs moving on instinct. Attack and dodge, dive and parry; matching feral grins growing on their faces. 

Their surroundings had long been etched into Tamlin's mind: a circular clearing flanked by maple trees, birches and a swiftly flowing brook. No rocks hidden in the ankle-high grass, no holes in the ground, no pitfalls to watch out for.

Only Rhysand, heir of the Night Court in his favourite black fighting leathers. Deadly enough. 

But Tamlin was going to beat him today. 

He swung his knife arm in an upsweep arc — not the most graceful move, but Rhysand fell for it. The male bent backward, avoiding the sweep by a mockingly wide margin — and didn't see when Tamlin let the knife fly. Straight towards those batlike wings. 

Rhys ducked at the last moment, barely, his balance lost, the grin dropping from his face. Tamlin pounced for victory, claws on both hands outstreched — " _Enough_!" — mere inches away... 

But Rhysand had claws of his own — though of entirely different sort. 

Tamlin's body stilled as they ripped through his mental shields, dug deep into his mind. He couldn't breathe. Not even his heart dared to beat against the daemati's will. 

"Playing dirty?" the heir of the Night Court crooned, stepping away from his range. But the talons' grip soon loosened, indicating he wasn't really angry. 

Which made Tamlin all the more so. Rhys's mind leashed him again before the growl even built up in his throat. And held. _Behave_. 

_Out of my head, bastard_. 

His muscles burned in protest at the unnatural position, lungs screamed for air. Rhysand sheathed his knives, ignoring him wholly, brushed dust off his fighting leathers and headed for the brook.

He drank a few handfuls, washed his face in the crystal-clear water and only then remembered to release Tamlin, who immediately dropped to his knees. And spent a blessed minute just gulping down mouthfuls of wonderfully cool air.

"Calmed down?" Rhys drawled when he was done panting. 

Tamlin ground his teeth, temper flaring again. But — "Yes. Sorry." 

_Apology accepted_.

The talons retreated from his head. "And burn in Hell."

Rhys chuckled. Then glanced at Tamlin appraisingly, and chuckled again. No, _giggled_ was more like it. 

"What's so funny?" 

"You won't like it." 

"Try me." 

"I mused if I'd need snacks to train you properly." Rhys raised his hands in mock defeat at Tamlin's snarl. "Warned you." 

Knowing better than to act upon his annoyance, Tamlin joined his friend by the brook and drank his fill of cold water. His empty stomach tightened in protest, but he wouldn't let Rhysand get wind of it.

Then he noticed the half-Illyrian male had dismissed the wings — a quirk of his mixed heritage that he could summon them at will. But he usually kept them out for their drills. "Tired already, Rhys?" 

"I have a job besides training you, you know." 

Tamlin nodded apologetically and unbound his hair, golden tresses catching sharp sunlight of the Spring Court as they fell to his shoulders. He was tired too, though more in soul than in body.

And hungry. So damn hungry. 

"Are you short on food here?" Rhysand asked. The bastard must have read it in his mind— "You lost weight." — Unless he didn't need to. 

"We can't eat what they send from home," was all explanation he would give. Still more than he should have revealed to an heir of an enemy High Lord.

They'd lost seventeen good males to that poison from three weeks before. The beast within lashed out at the memory, but he kept it contained. He had raged enough and it helped nothing. 

"So you finally developed a paranoia," Rhys remarked. With approval rather than sneer. "You might live to become High Lord after all." 

"I don't want to be a High Lord." 

"Do you see a better alternative?" 

"I'm damned either way," he started, but thought better of it and shut his mouth. He wouldn't — couldn't, knowing their history — tell Rhys about Amarantha. Even if he had turned her down again. Father would learn of it any day now, and then... He didn't want to imagine what awaited him back at the court. 

Neither of them should even be here. He ought to be hunting for whatever might be left in the forest — or winnowing his people to hunt somewhere else, and Rhys — Rhys had his job, whatever it in fact involved. He wouldn't tell, either.

They had long run out of safe conversation topics. Tamlin was usually content to let fists and blades do the speaking between them —

"High Lord isn't synonymous with your father, you know," Rhys said softly.

— and that was why. 

Still, he felt the need to explain. "I don't see them ever accepting me. Not as I am."

Rhys knew who _they_ were. Had his own _them_. "So what? That's the blessing of power — punish them, ignore them, send them away, do whatever you please." He gestured in the camp's direction. "The army is yours already. So are the ordinary people. And you are the heir... " — He rolled his eyes. — "Don't give me that look, it's obvious. What I mean — if you don't like how your court is, change it." 

"Will you change yours?" 

"I like to think I've already started," Rhys replied, smiling. It was a warm, gentle smile, that kind of expression most people considered him incapable of. "It's a process that will never end, but it's worth it. A better world is worth it." 

How Tamlin yearned for that, for a better, simpler world. For a life spent on the road, brothers in arms at his side. They could hunt for food, trade pelts for booze. And he would play the fiddle by a bonfire every evening. Or in country inns, if people would listen.

Oh, Lucien would laugh himself sick over the idea. And then join them. 

A fool's dream. 

He tried to hide how much the vision hurt, but Rhysand knew. He always did — yet never played on it. "I've invited my mother and sister to visit me this full moon," he offered instead to banish the heavy silence. 

Well, that shook Tamlin out of melancholy. "You invited them to the camp?!" But Rhys only shrugged and said, "Why not?" 

"Aren't Illyrian war-camps... unsafe for women?" 

Rhys smirked. "They will be unsafe for patriarchal pricks once I unleash Reana upon them. Call it my contribution to a better world." 

Not even the Otherworld was safe for males who so much as glanced wrong at the daughter of the High Lord of the Night Court. Not with her being the apple of her brother's eye. 

"I'm not so stupid, Tam. I'll escort them across the mountains, just in case one of these backward tribes has a collective death wish."

"Wiping them out would also be for a better world?" he asked cheekily, the words devoid of any real bite. 

"No." And there it was, the devil's grin. "Just for my satisfaction." 

Silence fell again — but different this time, lighter. The clearing bustled with life around them, the sun warming their faces. Tamlin let himself drink it in — the breeze, the earth, the song of the birds and the burbling of the brook. Let himself daydream, yet for a while. 

And then commited the moment to memory, in case it would be the last.

He cleared his throat, banishing the tightness that had settled in there, and muttered, "I doubt my vision of a better world is attainable."

Amethyst eyes opened lazily, their intense stare seeking out Tamlin's gold-flecked green. Rhys's answer was gentle — kind: "You won't know until you try."

But then the heir of the Night Court stood up and slid his hands into his pockets, that soft side of his glamoured again behind the usual sass. "However," he added with a cocky grin, "I'm inclined to agree you won't achieve it sitting on your ass by a stream."

Tamlin groaned, but stood up as well.

"Good. Now find your knife and I shall remind you how to throw these properly."

* * *

Summons arrived two days later. 

His brothers appeared at the camp in person, both armed to the teeth and plainly amused at the prospect of dragging him back to the court, should he be stupid enough to resist.

Eiril — Danar still preferred to keep a respectful distance from Tamlin — swaggered straight to where he'd been sparring with two of his men. He didn't bother to lower his voice as he delivered the message, "Father wants— needs—" A pointed cough. "— summons you home." 

Petty.

Tamlin sometimes wondered if Lucien understood the true value of his years-ago solstice gift, revealing this truth to him.

Old and ruthless and lethal no less, yet — he couldn't bring himself to fear his brothers as he once did. 

Father, however, was an entirely different matter. 

Tamlin had changed into finer clothes and roughly brushed his hair before winnowing to the Palace. 

And here he was, entering through the front gate like a humble petitioner after the wards had bounced him off, shame heating his cheeks. 

High Fae and faeries alike scurried away from his path, some bowing hastily as he rushed through the fountain garden. He paid them no heed, his eyes occupied elsewhere. 

Tamlin had seen the dazzling beauty of the many castles of the Summer Court; had visited, although seldom, their mirror twins overlooking the ever-frozen lakes of Winter. 

He had breathed the stagnant, cold air of Hybern's ancient fortresses in their cruel glory and smelled the sweet, ripe odour of the sprawling Forest Hall that was indeed as rotten inside as the fallen leaves decaying upon its brass rooftops. 

But nothing was quite like the Fountain Palace of Spring. 

A thousand fountains it was named after jetted enchanted water into the air, where it formed silhouettes of faeries and High Fae, of trees and animals. And beyond this sparkling tapestry lay the Palace itself, majestic with its imperious facade of pale marble — a repeated pattern of enormous windows, carved pillars and balconies spreading too wide for even immortal eyes to encompass, tastefully adorned with floral motifs etched in purest gold. It had an aura of regal benevolence that beckoned to Tamlin's heart — so unlike what dwelled inside.

He clamped down on his arising fear, letting the anger at his brothers' trick drive him instead. They must have messed with the Palace's wards to prevent him from winnowing inside — both Eiril and younger Danar had been schooled in the art of spells. Tamlin never got the chance to. 

But it would be him alone their father blamed for tardiness. 

Tamlin found his brothers making a spectacle of their boredom in the main hall. He didn't bother to quieten his snarl — and passerby courtiers soon found more interesting places to be. Even the guards flinched. But Eiril and Danar only swapped secretive smirks and gestured for him to follow. 

* * *

They led him to the High Lord’s study, a spacious room with one of these floor-to-ceiling windows opening to a vast terrace. And flanking the window — trophies. Antlers and horns, tusks, talons, fins and tails and wings both animal and lesser faerie — either were nothing but game for the the male leaning against the desk.

Tamlin felt his courage sputter like a smothered flame. 

His brothers entered too, shutting the door behind them. It did not bode well that they were invited to witness. 

He still couldn't bring himself to look the High Lord in the eye. 

Which is why he didn't notice when the male closed the distance between them. And clasped a collar of faebane around Tamlin's neck, Eiril sealing it from behind. 

Cold. Burning. Evil and void and ravenous.

Tamlin recoiled, trashing against Eiril's iron grip now on his wrists. Fighting with all he had to shove away, wrench free and flee.

He had less and less. Faebane was feeding on him. 

Magic wouldn't come. Gone. Devoured. Claws that could have ripped the hateful thing to scraps pushed against the skin, yet unable to get out. Restrained. Trapped.

 _Like he was_.

When faebane stifled the last of his strength, Tamlin was brought to his knees. One of them yanked his bound hair down so that he couldn't help but look at the High Lord, who'd returned to his previous spot by the desk. Seemingly bored, he sighed, "Pathetic. All three of you." 

None had an answer.

Father turned his lush-green eyes on his youngest. "Do you know, Tamlin, why you are here, and bound?" 

_Because I am your heir and a savage beast that can never rule your decadent court but I would rather slit my throat than marry the female you think who could_ , he thought. Not that he could ever say it out loud and live to see the next dawn.

He might not, regardless. 

There was no way to yield the power that made him heir. It was decided by Fate, and if the Mother could indeed alter its tapestry, she had yet to hear out Tamlin's prayers. There was no way — other than to die. 

Father clicked his tongue at his son's silence. "Oh, lady Amarantha is upset, but I will not rob her of the questionable pleasure of winning you over." 

He loosed a breath. Not today, then. _Not today_. 

But then his father’s handsome features contorted into an expression of mindless rage. "What I am _upset_ about" — he snarled, coming closer, "—is your affair with that _lesser faerie bastard_!" Last words were a roar of enough undiluted power to shake the Palace grounds. 

A bejewelled hand shot out to slap him across the face. 

Claws out. 

Tamlin couldn't even scream as they raked through his cheek, cut skin and muscle, sheer force of the blow knocking him to the side. Eiril released him so he could fall.

* * *

Tamlin reawoke to silence. Only his heartbeat drummed in his head, ragged breaths resounding too loudly. His hardly regained vision swam. All he could see was a pattern of red splotches on white fur. Priceless hide rug — would Father take his pelt as replacement? — then a pair of polished leather shoes. 

"Up with him."

Somebody lifted him back. He couldn't focus his eyes, his mind. Faebane, he realised distantly. Blocking his healing. 

"You are allowed to be a fool, Tamlin," his father was saying, voice waxing and waning, somewhere distant yet close, "Cauldron be witness not the only one among you soldier grunts, and no less useful for it. But no one — _no one_ betrays me and lives." A half smile, half seen. "Especially not fools." 

"Never — betrayed you," he tried to say, but words came distorted. Only more crimson droplets fell on the rug. 

"Prove it." 

Danar snorted somewhere behind. 

He barely managed to whisper, "How." Which was what they wanted him to ask. "Tell us something useful," Eiril suggested. "Betray _him_." 

Tamlin hesitated. It cost him dearly. 

Father sank claws in his shoulder, drew a whine of shock and pain from him — then retreated the hand in a spray of blood. 

Tamlin panted, tears welling in his eyes, but gritted his teeth. So be it. He wouldn't tell those bastards anything. 

High Lord of Spring only smiled. "Hold him."

And stabbed again. And again. And again.

* * *

In and out the claws went. How there could be enough of his shoulder left to shred further— He had two, Danar reminded cheekily. But Tamlin would not, would never— _scream as they pierce his flesh._ Inhale. Would never betray Rhysand—

_Do you see a better alternative?_

Rhys's calm voice cut the panicked din in his head. Father’s claws retreated again, though Tamlin hardly noted that. There it was, his answer. The only answer. 

He gulped for air, tasting blood and sweat and tears instead, not screaming anymore but unable to speak. High Lord noticed, and pulled back. Waiting, while his son cleared his throat of bile. Unsuspecting. 

"His— sister. Mother. They will travel alone..." — It wasn't a ruse when he choked on blood filling his mouth. Spitting only tore at his wounds.

Then he tasted flesh. 

The hide rug was beyond rescue when Tamlin was done heaving. Father, for once, seemed not to mind, as long as he continued speaking. "Full moon. He— Rhys— was so upset about it."

High Lord brushed the faebane collar with his bloodsoaked hand, as if admiring the wretched thing, but ordered Eiril to loosen it. The younger male obeyed, albeit reluctantly. 

With the cursed stone further from his skin, Tamlin's injuries finally started to heal over. Slowly. Painfully. 

At Father’s bidding Danar lent his powers to heal his cheek — and then the collar was back in place, leaving his shoulder still raw and bleeding. 

Despite it, Tamlin's head was now clear. So each question his brothers asked, he fed them carefully disguised guesses and lies and a bit of truth, mixed with an expected amount of not-knowings.

Yes, they would have non-Illyrian escort until the mountains. Would they be winnowed there? No idea. Was Rhysand's sister daemati, too? No. — A guess, but if she was then the bastards would be in for a surprise. The exact destination? Rhys wouldn't be so stupid as to reveal that. Neither where his family was to be parted with that made-up escort. 

Once they'd heard it all, Eiril let him collapse on the ruined hide rug. Tamlin hoped his sobs didn't resemble laughter overmuch — he himself had no idea what they really were. 

Pain. Shame, perhaps. But grim satisfaction too.

"Can we trust him, father?"

"We'll see. Tamlin shall come with us."

 _Fine_. Even if Rhysand killed him too — it would be worth it.

Then the words sank in. 

_Us_ , he'd said. Father was coming with them. 


	5. No Better World

Tamlin spent most of the three days remaining until the full moon locked up in his room — to recuperate before the hunt, Danar had claimed as they dumped him here. With the faebane collar left in place, it was easier said than done. 

The feat of crawling into bed was enough to exhaust what remained of his strength. His head was swimming, rested uncomfortably on a pile of thick pillows bound to give his neck cramps. Tamlin was beyond caring. 

For there was a well of void growing in his chest. He'd dug it himself. 

Curled on his good side, he willed his stinging eyes to remain open, tracing the flowing ornaments on rarely used furniture. He did not want to sleep — no, dreams had no business being kind to him now, not when he'd just betrayed both their beloved children to death. 

His father was going to murder them. 

When dusk had fallen and the last of his tears had dried, Tamlin's weary mind finally relented to the darkness, and it turned out to be indeed as rife with nightmares as he had feared. He soon learned to appreciate it, though, for wakefulness was much worse. 

The pain lingered, dull at times, throbbing yet muddled by the stifling sea of misery and guilt and shame he found himself drowning in. But that Tamlin could take; it was easy to sink deeper into the too soft mattress and let feverish dreams claim him back. 

Other times he would wake in sharp agony, wounds swollen and taunt and burning as if his father’s claws were left buried in his flesh like venomous stingers. Then he would tear the freshly formed scabs open until pain or blood loss dragged him under. 

Somebody kept changing his dressings when he slept. It couldn't be his mother, no matter how he wished it. She was normally invited to sit by him when Tamlin was seriously wounded, and if she ever wondered at his injuries, she said no word. But there was no elegant way to explain the collar. 

Mother's ignorance was a blessing, kind and loving as she was. Tamlin had sworn never to begrudge her the happiness, even if it had been built on bloodstained lies. Even if the blood had been his, too.

The collar wouldn't budge. His wounds were healing so slowly, like a mortal's would. He wondered distantly if that was why his brothers found tormenting humans so much fun — it took no effort at all to make them suffer for days on end. 

When a healer was sent to clean him up on the second evening, he was ready to let it be over. Whatever way.

* * *

Father winnowed them to the Night Court territory early in the morning, heavily glamoured along with a party of roughly twenty High Fae armed with hunting knives, ash javelins and bows together with quivers of precious ash arrows. Gentry as well as warriors, it was not unlikely that some brought faebane arrowheads. 

_Rhys_. Tamlin clenched his fists.

It was full autumn in the Solar Courts, but so far to the north, winter already reigned unchallenged. Snow-covered plain stretched far and wide under grey, overhung sky. Gusts of howling wind pelted Tamlin's warmest, yet still inappropriately insubstantial clothes with icy drizzle. He didn't mind. 

They deserved worse than that. 

Where grass and fur and wind had once been, bluish nothingness resided, ancient and ruthless and cold like the frozen wastes around. So Tamlin shifted into that instead, let its motionlessness settle over him, the hollowness possess his heart and show in his eyes. Shifted into that calm, soothing nothing. 

His father and brothers, seemingly unruffled by the otherworldly vastness of the Illyrian Mountains looming ahead, took three males each and winnowed to where they'd decided to position them on watch the night before. 

Only on that war council, upon seeing the maps and already drawn strategy plans did Tamlin realise how close his inept lies had been to falling short. 

Night Court territory was predominantly mountainous, with its capital, the Hewn City, roughly localised in the southeastern part of the central range. Whoever wanted to travel from the Hewn City to the Illyrian Mountains in the far north needed either the ability to fly or to winnow — or an abundance of determination and time before they even reached the Steppes, where Tamlin was now freezing to the bones ankle-deep in wet snow. 

The escort he'd made up would have been able to accompany Rhys's family into the mountains. However, the Illyrians were an aggressive, highly independent race who did not appreciate High Fae intruding upon their native territory, and his father had had enough dealings with them during the War to rationalise respecting their wrath. 

Yet Spring Court warriors would risk it today, in units of two or three, camouflaged under their High Lord's glamour. Each of them capable of winnowing over short distances so they could pass the message upon sighting their prey, or flee in case of early detection. 

Tamlin was the only exception. 

With his wounds still seeping under layers of flexible bandages, searing pain accompanying every step or inhale of mint-cold northern air, he was but a hindrance anyway. 

He'd been handed a bow nevertheless, at which Eiril burst into laughter. Unexpectedly, their father had admonished him for that. "You couldn't have withstood a third of what Tamlin had," he'd said. 

As if Eiril wouldn't be the wiser for it.

* * *

"They have been spotted, High Lord."

High Lord of the Spring Court nodded, his strikingly handsome features calm, composed. Seated atop a flat boulder in his fine hunting leathers, loosely bound golden hair billowing on the frigid wind, the male looked too young, too carefree for the blood on his hands. Yet there was no mistaking the violent power radiating out of him. "And have you?"

"No, High Lord. It doesn't seem so." 

Tamlin's father listened to the male's hushed full report, brows narrowing, then dispatched orders to other units — most were to retreat to the Middle and wait there, unless they could make another long leap back home. It was his personal hunt, his revenge for the War and repercussions that followed. 

They winnowed into a sparse pine forest, landing on an ice-covered path. A mere few steps ahead the slope descended sharply, solid snow caps clinging to tree trunks below at heights indicating avalanches were a common occurrence here. 

Small stones and shards of crusted ice slid from under Tamlin's clumsy feet, and tumbled down to hit trees or sink in the snow. Father hissed for silence. This was happening. This was _real_. 

Tamlin felt his mask of indifference crumble. The rock that started the landslide — he'd been the one, and just as powerless to stop it. 

His brothers and their units were already on site, having found advantageous positions on rocky outcroppings or high up between tree branches, bows in hands, javelins secured within easy reach.

With the help of one of the warriors, Tamlin climbed a boulder formation jutting out above tree line and readied the bow. His father’s glamour sizzled near the collar, but doubtless held. High Lord of Spring was master of every form of deception. 

To their left, at the narrow valley's northwestern end, towering peaks parted in a deep notch-shaped opening, offering safe passage deeper into the mountain range. 

And across the river, where the fells rose gradually leading up to a wide pass gentle enough to traverse on foot, two winged silhouettes glided over the ridge.

Two. He couldn't see Rhysand — he must have been hidden in the low-hanging clouds or cloaked in shadows. Waiting in ambush as well. 

"Arrows," High Lord commanded. 

Tamlin willed icy calm back into his body.

One of the Illyrians — now he could see they were indeed both female — looped backward through the crisp air, dimmed sunlight highlighting her wings' membranes, then launched into a wild, plummeting barrel, dangerously close to the pine tips on the far slope. 

That must have been Reana. 

_She's wild_ , Rhys laughed in his memory. _Like a foehn wind_.

The other Illyrian — Rhys's mother — folded her wings and followed, shouting words which had scattered on the wind before he could make them out. Scolding? Or encouragement? 

Reana angled up at the very last moment and shot back up, then started flapping to regain altitude. There was a sword hung across her back. 

_She eats males like you for breakfast_ , her brother's cheeky voice reminded him. 

Tamlin could only hope so as he finally notched an arrow on the string. Rhysand himself was still nowhere to be seen. 

"Draw." 

Tamlin did. And immediately fired. 

Pain flared in his strained shoulder, razor-sharp and scorching hot. He dropped the bow. It was all he could do, this warning. It was up to Rhysand now.

* * *

The arrow sailed over the valley in a gentle arc. And once its trajectory reached the peak, mayhem erupted. 

More arrows and some javelins flew, warriors acting without orders. Some winnowed to get into throwing range, tearing the glamour. Female screams cut through the air. Tamlin did not wait to see who turned on him, already running down the precipitous slope. 

White light flashed where his brothers shifted. Two horned, wolflike shapes shot forward, mighty legs sending the snow flying. Hounds caught the scent — and where was Rhys? 

Tamlin stumbled. But kept running. 

Flash of gold between the pines. A clearing. Snow dyed red. There — a dark figure on the ground. Her brown skin ashen, leathers torn. And bent. At all the wrong places, wrong angles. Broken. Countless shafts protruding from her shredded wings. 

_They'd spit her name in my face, in my father’s_ , Rhysand's shadow replied from beyond time. _As if it's an insult_. 

_Where are you, Rhysand?!_

Deep dark eyes turned to Tamlin, spotted his flecked green ones beyond the pine branches and snow-flecked trunks. Still conscious. Till the very end. There was a silent plea in them. Tears and pain but not terror — not for herself. 

_Where are you, where are you—_

Father’s sword fell. 

Tamlin turned and ran. To where Rhysand's sister was still fighting for her life.

* * *

Tamlin's breathing was ragged as he climbed the grassy slope, good hand grappling for rocks and roots when there were no more trees to hold him up. Wind was shoving him where it pleased. 

Legs numb from wading through the freezing stream at the valley bottom buckled under him when he finally found his brothers. And Reana. 

Eiril and Danar had her cornered against a stone face high up on the slope. The gentle pass wasn't far above. She made it that far.

And Rhys— Rhys really wasn't there. 

Tamlin could only watch as a girl not even twenty stood against two ancient beasts. Yet Reana held her ground, her Illyrian sword drawing the border between his brothers and herself, not one flicker of fear in those amethyst eyes. 

_Oh, she's a hell-cat_ , Rhys's amused voice explained. He'd chuckled then, and added, _If Rea was the heir, the court would beg on their knees to have me back_. 

Her left wing hung limp, blood still flowing where the membrane had been pierced by two ash arrows. No trace of her power. If she could winnow, she'd have done it already. 

Teeth bared, the Illyrian girl snarled at his brothers. And Danar yielded a step. He was limping.

 _Holy Mother_. 

"Watch out!" Tamlin roared. 

Reana didn't hesitate. In the seconds he bought her, Rhys's sister hurled her sword at her opponents and launched into a sprint upslope. 

She made but a few steps. Then Eiril sent a gust of wind to trip her, and it was over. 

His eldest brother approached where Reana trashed on the ground, pinned down by his power. "Well, well. You aren't half bad," he drawled, back to High Fae form. 

Then he lifted her up, and exchanged magical grip on her wrists for his hands. "Want her, Dan?" 

Tamlin rose to his feet as Danar prowled closer, no longer limping. Powerful muscles rippled under golden-brown fur, each movement deliberately slow, calculated. He'd always enjoyed drawing this out. 

Reana only spit at him. 

Danar's paw lashed out. Not to kill. The claws tore through leather, slicing her jacket and pants open. Blood welled where they grazed her skin. 

_No_. 

As he shifted and made to lick the blood off, she started screaming. 

Was still screaming when Tamlin's throwing knife buried itself in her forehead. To the hilt. 

"It's enemy territory. We shouldn't linger."

* * *

He did not recognise the composed male who'd said the words, who then performed a reserved nod to Eiril and Danar with his body. 

Who hadn't as much as blinked at their flabbergasted and outraged expressions. 

But he was an actor good enough to warrant applause, apparently. 

Father clapped his hands a few more times, making his way up the slope. Regarding Tamlin appraisingly. "And here I was certain you were setting me up against him," he finally said, customary condescending sneer on his face. "Pathetic indeed." 

Two warriors accompanied the High Lord of the Spring Court. Both carried morbid trophies: one, a pair of ruined Illyrian wings, the other — two wooden boxes, one bloodsoaked at the bottom. 

"Get me her head," the High Lord ordered, pointing at Reana's body. Eiril was happy to oblige. Danar still seethed.

Tamlin felt empty.

Father unclasped the collar with his claws — if he were to bury them in Tamlin's neck, he would mind. Wouldn't care.

The adrenaline wave ebbed, leaving nothing behind. He felt fine. Hollow, but fine. He should have hated himself for it. But couldn't. 

Just as he couldn't avert his eyes. Couldn't stop watching Danar holding what had been Rhys's sister down. And Eiril, one hand and knee digging in her back, the other hand twisting. Tugging. Wrenching. No sight of claws. 

The wing tore off with a wretched squelch. 

So much for a better world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien will be back next chapter, I promise.


	6. Echoes

It started with a rumour, dreadful and vile, slithering through Forest Hall's narrow passageways; spreading inconspicuously like a fire kindled in a decrepit warehouse, unnoticed until the blaze grows great enough to encompass half a city.

Lucien was already tracking the spark before most courtiers even smelled the smoke.

* * *

Early in the morning, a pair of lesser faerie maidservants entered his chambers, having been summoned by a bell Lucien rang once he was more or less decently dressed.

Pale-skinned and bone-thin, with elongated skulls and lanky, ungraceful limbs, the two females would have been considered too unsightly to serve by the majority of High Fae lords and ladies. They bowed low upon arriving. 

A third maid, with skin the colour of canola but of more conventional build and features, entered behind them, carrying a tray with his breakfast. Resisting the tempting aroma of the yet steeping black tea, Lucien directed his sleep-muddled attention to the beacon and eggs. 

The yellow-skinned servant asked for his approval, then threw the curtains open. Blindingly bright despite dense foliage outside, sunlight poured into the room, none too gently informing Lucien it wasn't early morning, if morning at all. 

His eyes narrowed at the luminous onslaught that reflected in every damned speck of gold and brass in the room, highlighting all the red and orange and brown hues. 

_Fair enough_. The unholy sum in gold yesterday's late games brought him had been well worth sleeping in and a little headache. 

Lucien let the lanky servants fix his casual attire, and dropped on the cushioned chair before the brass vanity. The yellow-skinned faerie poured him a cup of tea, then bowed and left. 

Drowsy as he was, he listened for the fading sound of her footsteps. If that one was asked to spend a night with every noble she pretended to spy for, she wouldn't be done by the summer solstice. 

Lucien wasn't so naive as to think the lanky servants' loyalty belonged to him alone, either, if their perfidious kind even grasped the concept of it. 

But their spindly, too-many-knuckled and wonderfully dexterous hands were already done combing his hair. "Free rein," he muttered, and after a brief, whispered debate, they started braiding. 

Lucien sipped from his hot tea, enjoying its full-bodied flavour — cloves and pepper and a hint of acorn — praying to Cauldron it would rouse his mind.

Or perhaps fresh gossip could. "Nothing interesting to say?" 

The two exchanged glances over his head, twelve lithe fingers each never stopping arranging his hair. Quiet, they were today. He raised an eyebrow at them in the mirror. "What now?" 

He got his answers. 

The tea wouldn't have woken him up so efficiently had he spilled it on himself.

* * *

High Lord of the Autumn Court rarely granted audiences to anyone outside of his favoured circles, and even when he did, he seemed to enjoy keeping his inferiors waiting. 

Lucien had doubts if his father was actually capable of enjoying anything, or if he acted out of spite — well, of that Beron had no shortage. 

Sooner rather than later, most petitioners abandoned meanly incommodious seatings of the waiting hall and, for lack of alternatives, occupied themselves with admiring the strikingly lifelike fresco panoramas depicting the luscious lands of Autumn that lined the hall's walls and crept onto the high ceiling.

Native courtiers seldom paid any attention to those reluctant admirers of art. However, to see nearly two dozen High Fae in ball-worthy finery going at it begged reflection. Lucien knew at a glance they were all Spring Court, absorbed as each was in pretending not to know the others.

The Beast High Lord might have indeed bitten off more than even he could chew, from the looks of it. Lucien hoped Tamlin kept well away from whatever caused the rumoured blood feud — with whom, his maidservants hadn't heard. 

Slanted sunlight poured into the hall through stained glass windows, situated on both sides of the wide, marble stairway leading to the carved iron gate of the throne room. Yet another uncommon sight — in making an exception of allowing petitioners into the court before midday, Beron probably intended to obscure the whole affair. 

So far, quite successfully — Lucien spotted few other onlookers. This, however, had made his winnowing in rather noticeable. 

"Lord Lucien!" 

_Cauldron save me_. He groaned inwardly, bringing up a pleasant smile, and turned to where the voice came from. 

_Mother hold me..._

Lucien could stand dealing with Spring Court nobles: although lofty and inclined towards violence, thanks to his elevated status of a High Lord's son, they were bearable. 

But the flame-haired lady storming in his direction was clearly Autumn Court native, which usually left two possibilities: either she'd kept vipers as childhood pets — to match her personality — or had not, for they would have been more intelligent than her. 

His mother was one of the precious few exceptions to the rule. 

To Lucien's profound relief, he was on familiar terms with the lady's husband, a brooding male grudgingly following her across the hall. 

Unfortunately, everyone else appeared acquainted with the frescoes well enough to find the upcoming conversation of more interest. 

"Lord Curtis. It's good to see you." 

The lord replied in kind, then proceeded with the much-needed introduction: "My wife, Antoniette."

Lucien only inclined his head to her, observing the reaction. The lady's perfectly arched eyebrows narrowed slightly. Yes for the vipers, then. 

Curtis was clearly distressed, and well aware of all the attention they were getting. "Could we speak in private?" 

After a nod from the son of Beron, the Spring Court couple headed for one of the back corridors, escorted by their fellow courtiers' glares of unsated curiosity. 

* * *

Turned out, lady Antoniette's sister and only remaining relative at Autumn had suddenly decided to visit Summer, leaving her apartments at the Forest Hall empty and warded — had kicked them out, in translation — thus the couple and their impressive pile of salvaged belongings had no lodging. 

Lucien didn't bother to quieten his exasperated sigh, but summoned a servant and ordered her to find the Spring Court nobles appropriate _guest_ rooms.

Antoniette launched into a cannonade of expressions of gratitude, until he cut her off with the battle-tested "that's what friends do." 

Lord Curtis mumbled that of course, he could always count on their help too, to his wife's poorly concealed dismay. Lucien really couldn't blame the sister. 

"May I know what this is all about?" he asked when all was settled. 

"You haven't heard?" 

"Only second-hand rumours, I'm afraid." 

Curtis shook his head. In the dimmer corridor, the unnatural paleness of his complexion stood out starkly. "He's gone mad," he said bitterly. "Attacked Night — Night! — unprovoked. Then held a ball in the honour of his victory."

"Had us come at two hours' notice," Antoniette supplied. "Outright ordered the whole Fountain Palace to attend." 

"And you didn't?" 

"We packed before and winnowed out when he retired for the evening." Curtis leaned against the wall. "My cousin had been to the Night Court with them— with the High Lord and his sons. Told us to get the hell out of Spring."

The helpful cousin was nowhere to be seen. 

It did not bother Antoniette in the least, apparently. "Do you think you could get Curtis accepted into your father’s service?"

Both males frowned at her audacity, Lucien replying, "That's not my call to make, lady." 

She nodded, unfazed as if she had predicted his answer, then glanced anxiously towards the waiting hall. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Some say the Night Court has retaliated already." 

Lucien looked to Curtis for confirmation, but the lord shook his light-brown mane again. "I don't know. But they say— they say Lyandel is dead." 

High Lord of the Spring Court — dead? The thousand-years-old near-legendary warrior, the prideful, cunning male who had outplayed them all after the War, annexing Autumn and Summer Courts' southernmost lands as reparations for the Wall — _dead_? 

Lucien couldn't wrap his mind around it. But if somebody could have killed the Beast High Lord, then it was the High Lord of Night. Or, as likely, Rhysand. 

"And his family, and half the Rosehall — wiped out," Antoniette added, nodding to herself. Exciting rumour indeed. 

_Wiped out?_

"Who's the new High Lord?" Lucien managed to whisper. Before it sank in.

"That youngest — the soldier. He…" 

Panicked screams erupted from the waiting hall.

* * *

Upon reaching the waiting hall, the first thing Lucien noticed were the throne room iron doors, thrown wide open in a regal gesture of invitation. Then Cyril, his third-eldest brother, standing in the gate, as always resplendent in gold-embroidered finery — but for the expression of utter bewilderment on his handsome face.

A part of Lucien's mind registered the Spring courtiers, a few winnowing out, others desperately trying to blend in with the vivid frescoes. He even noted the sunlight had dimmed, and the shadows that danced restlessly in the far corners, but his eyesight had somehow skimmed over the cause of this mayhem. 

Quite literally _over_. 

But there she was, the ancient monster whom the immortals' nightmares feared at night, encased in a tiny, feminine body so at odds with what lurked inside. 

At a flick of her bejewelled hand, absolute silence fell over the waiting hall. 

Cyril stumbled a step back when Amren spoke, for her voice was dusk without dawn, was the wind soughing in the void and darkness unmarred by stars, soft and cold and final — and amused at it. 

"I come as an emissary of Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court."

* * *

Whoever Cyril had been sent to retrieve for their father, the High Lord of Autumn granted their audience to Amren instead. 

Had little saying in this, from the looks of it. The emissary of the Night Court bypassed Lucien's brother unconcernedly, as if the male was but a piece of furniture. A wobbly piece of furniture. 

And when the gate slammed shut behind her, the collision of carved iron resounded in the hushed hall like a death knell. 

Not for Tamlin, Lucien was soon to ascertain. 

He'd fled before Cyril, yet mortified by fear or the insult or both, spotted him across the hall. 

Lucien found himself rather good at fleeing.

* * *

Unnatural silence had crept over the glade, the birch forest holding its breath in anticipation of the incoming horror — the horror lured here by a generous offering of three freshly butchered chickens, laid on the ground in a neat row. 

Even the trees bent closer to each other, seeking and offering comfort. Then it came into sight. 

It was tall, taller than any High Fae, a storm of tattered robes and not-skin like weatherworn bone poking through the many holes in the threadbare fabrics. Dread followed in its wake.

The bait couldn't have been more obvious, yet the monster did not halt in its ghastly approach. Perhaps it was that hungry. Perhaps it considered its secrets worth the prize. 

Bones clicked as it wrapped spindly hands around one of the chickens, not yet dried blood smearing over the greyish beige of its cracked fingernails. 

But no trap sprung to life. And no assault began. Only a male voice sounded from the trees above, young and bold, albeit weary. 

"Tell me what happened at Spring last night," it demanded. 

The Suriel lifted its bald head, tattered robes billowing on a phantom wind. Swirling milk-white eyes widened in recognition.

"We meet again, Starborn Boy."

* * *

_A few years earlier._

* * *

That messenger faerie had not had it easy finding Lucien where he'd been gallivanting around Adriata, blissfully unaware of the time of the year and, quite often, too drunk to care about remembering his name.

Fortunately, Tamlin's scribbled note had been delivered in time for Lucien to wholly and deliberately defy its content. But not ignore. Never that. 

Just two lines, it had been. And a chasm of fear and worry between them.

* * *

Lucien had used up half of his debts of gratitude to contact the notorious heir of the Night Court, acting on a mere rumour he and Tamlin were friends.

He'd received a blank piece of paper in response. Soon, however, words appeared. _He can take on both his brothers. Have no fear, little Lucien._

By the Cauldron, what had given him the courage to reply? Ah. Red, that much he remembered, but vintage date and grape origin escaped him.

_It is not my fear I worry about._

The note had then vanished, only to reappear shortly with another flowing sentence added below Lucien's. He hardly had the time to read it — _I will not start a war over it._ — before the note was gone again. 

_No mind-breaching of Spring Court's royals_ , Rhysand clarified. 

_What if it wouldn't require you to?_

Then, _Do you have anything specific in mind?_

He'd thought about it. And wrote: _Tomorrow, I will._

* * *

"Ah. You came for secrets, Starborn Boy?" 

The Suriel was as gross and terrifying as the stories had it, all rags and twisted limbs, its eyes bottomless wells of milky-white deep-set in a face cut out of dried, grayish bone. 

Its voice was even worse — many voices was more like it, both male and female, some flowing, others grating, perfectly synchronised. 

Lucien swallowed his disgust and fear, and recited, "I came for secrets of the sons of the High Lord of the Spring Court, ones they most fear revealing."

The monster sought to release itself, fingers clawing around its pinned legs. But Lucien had been taught trap-making by hunters who made a living from it, and his snares held. 

And so, the Suriel had no choice but to answer.

* * *

"Release me, Starborn Boy," it demanded once Lucien was more or less done laughing at its revelations. 

"Why do you call me that?" he asked, no longer really afraid. A mistake, he was soon to realise. 

The Suriel cocked its head to the side. "It’s a secret for another meeting," it replied, clicking those long, sharp fingers.

Lucien was indeed short on time, but... He flicked his knife, grinning. "No way to convince you?" 

"Are you offering me a bargain?" Its ghastly eyes widened. "Interesting."

"Merely asking for your price."

"Free me."

* * *

The damned thing had nearly caught him. 

Bloodied and panting, Lucien scribbled his explanatory message to Rhysand against a wooden barn's wall, his handwriting shaking and uneven. 

He couldn't go back to the Forest Hall like that, not until he'd washed the scent of blood off himself, and not until the burning slashes on his back were completely healed. 

Tricked by a malevolent faerie like a dumb human. He felt foolish enough without half the court knowing. 

Thus Lucien bathed in a stream and purchased the best — not anywhere near acceptable — shirt at a stall in the same village he'd winnowed to when escaping the Suriel's grasp. 

"Flowing water my ass," he hissed under his breath, feeling the scabs split open again as he put the shirt on, his old one reduced to bloody tatters. It was his hair, though, that he truly mourned. "Try crossing it in time."

* * *

_I get to see it to the end_ , Rhysand's reply said. 

Lucien hesitated, having already dispatched anonymous warning notes to Tamlin's parents, but decided to go with it. 

Fate clearly favoured him these days. 

He was about to sign the bargain when he remembered— _But I don't want a tattoo out of the deal._

_And here I was starting to like you_ — _for a Vanserra._ He could have sworn it was amusement increasing the slant of Rhysand's handwriting. _Fine. No tattoos._

_It’s a bargain._

* * *

One more message was to appear on that already filled piece of paper come morning. A message Lucien couldn't quite decipher — whether it was a joke, a promise, or an outright threat.

_We need to talk, little Lucien._

His hair had long since grown back, and they never did. Perhaps Rhysand had forgotten. Perhaps planned to prank him in turn. 

Or maybe Lucien would pay in blood for the insult. He had sworn not to care: that night had been worth it. 

Tamlin had been worth it.

* * *

_Present._

* * *

Tamlin was worth it. 

"What happened at the Spring Court," Lucien repeated, not bothering to make it sound like a question. The thing knew what he meant anyway. 

"And why would I tell?" the Suriel inquired, cocking its head to a sound of clicking vertebrae. "You haven't caught me."

"I'm in no mood for this bullshit, monster." 

It sighed in its many voices, as if disappointed by his lack of manners, and gathered the chickens in its long, bony arms before answering. 

In terse words, the Suriel spun a tale of the former High Lord of the Spring Court returning from a hunt with his sons, his subordinates carrying two sets of hacked membranous wings. Of what had followed. 

And, even though Lucien didn't ask, it told him about the chaos of the morning. Bark crunched where the son of Beron dug his fingers into the tree trunk, mindless of the splinters and pain. 

"Do I die if I go to Spring now?" he whispered. 

The Suriel jumped high up, swift as the wind, and perched on the branch across from Lucien. They stared each other down: swirling white of clean-picked corpses against steady, dim amber. No fear in either. 

"You do not seem afraid of death, Starborn." 

Lucien had the power to winnow across the nearest river long rallied and ready, his focus on the monster sharp and unblinking. "I can now flee fast enough," he told the Suriel. 

Its lipless mouth contorted into what could have been a smile. "Do, and your blood will not be spilled." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering if it was a CC × ACoTaR crossover theory reference in there, the answer is yes.


	7. Wells of Silence

Lucien made it to the Spring Court border in two leaps, three more remaining before gravel crunched under his feet, the familiar hedge-bordered gate and the High Lord's manor beyond materialising into view against the overhung sky. 

Breathing became hard, his heartbeat hammering under his ribs. Winnowing over long distances drained his power quicker than many shorter steps would, but frankly, he was beyond caring.

Cold, gusty wind pushed him forward, crashing through the dense evergreen foliage with a near-deafening roar. Ripped leaves swirled about, some catching in the stands of his hair the gale had wrestled loose. 

Lucien suspected what the aberrant blustery weather meant, whose turmoil the churning clouds above reflected.

It was with heavy heart that he removed the leaves, and the last of his qualms about coming scattered on the wind. 

The sentries at the gate let the son of Beron through without much fuss, an old acquaintance reluctantly agreeing to take him to the High Lord upon hearing a summary of the tidings the Suriel had disclosed. 

Tamlin was the High Lord of the Spring Court now, Lucien had to remind himself. The title didn't sit well with the image of his friend, with the kindhearted, straightforward male he was. 

Perhaps, in a fairer world, it would.

* * *

The door to the receiving hall stood ajar, one wing hanging precariously on the upper hinge alone, bent and splintered by the same power that had rendered the black-and-white tiled floor into the cracked mosaic now crunching under Lucien's boots. 

Strained wood and metal groaned loudly when he pushed the door open. The sentries on both sides flinched as the sound tore the tangible veil of silence that had settled over the manor, echoes sweeping through the empty corridors. 

Inside of the hall bore little resemblance to the opulent ballroom that once hosted the late High Lord's private parties — Lucien used to gatecrash them on the rare occasions when Tamlin was coerced into attending.

Now the windows, the tiled floor, the silk curtains and the crystal chandeliers and the meticulously selected paintings — everything was torn or shattered or simply broken. And atop the dais at the far end, upon that cushioned, carved throne—

"Get out." 

"Tam," Lucien breathed, the hollow order registered but unheeded. By the Cauldron, his voice — hoarse as if he'd been screaming. 

Yet another broken thing.

His head was bowed, ever so slightly, his shoulders slumped against the back of the throne. The weight of the crown he didn't yet wear was crushing him already. 

"Get out," Tamlin repeated in the same detached voice, eyes open but fixed at nothing at all. 

Lucien clamped on the surging storm of his feelings, pushed them aside to sort out later — if ever, and began slowly walking towards the throne. 

He was acutely aware of the glaring combo of steel and finery on him, of how hazardously loud his steps rang in this eerie, laden silence. 

Of how easily things could go so very, very wrong. 

The body of the last male Tamlin deemed an intruder lay just a few feet to the side, though Lucien would not risk averting his eyes to stare. 

The first emissary of the Fountain Palace had arrived coincidently with the funerals of the murdered royal family, and had been dismissed without a word. The second, the sentries had to drag out. Then an overambitious lordling volunteered to go, intent on swaying the young, unversed High Lord in his favour.

The Palace did not send another emissary. 

Lucien paused at the foot of the dais, his meagre confidence worn thin. He hated himself for it, for even being afraid. Tamlin doubtless could smell the fear on him, if he cared enough to. 

He wanted to close his stinging eyes, unable to stomach it, to bear that empty gaze anymore. The will— the _need_ to say something, say _anything_ , to offer what useless comfort he could warred against the crumbling fortress of reason. 

He was about to speak when his friend blinked sluggishly, recognition finally sparking in those haunted, bloodshot eyes.

"Lucien," Tamlin said, confusion plain in his voice. 

A quiet sigh of relief escaped his lips. "Yes," he answered softly. 

"Get out."

"It's— good to see you too, Tam."

Up close, the dim light could no longer obscure how fatigued— how ill he was.

Tamlin did not change out of his hunting leathers, their matte browns offsetting the paleness of his skin, a sallow hue to it instead of his usual, beautiful gold. Dark shadows underlined his emerald eyes— conscious and seeing now, but so heartbreakingly hollow. 

The Suriel had claimed the wounds Lyandel had given him were healed, but something in his stiff posture, in the set of his jaw, belied its words. He was still in pain. 

The sight of it cracked Lucien's heart. 

In a worryingly graceless motion, the High Lord lifted his good hand and slowly rubbed it over his brow. Claws scratched skin, drew blood — although the injury healed promptly. Tamlin did not seem to so much as notice. 

"What do you want," he demanded. 

"To see if you're—" _All right_? Lucien stammered, choked on the so grisly inappropriate words. Clearly nothing was even close to _right._ "—unharmed," he finished awkwardly. 

"I am." Tamlin's lips curled up, sharp canines flashing in the dim light. "Leave me." 

If he thought the conversation over, if he believed no one cared whether he wasted away here, brooding, then he didn't know his friend at all. 

Lucien braced himself and stepped up the dais, Tamlin's warning growl not deterring him. Not one bit. Not anymore. 

Even if the walls shook with the force of it. 

At the final step before the throne, Lucien lowered his hand to the ground and sat down on the dais, wrapping his arms around his knees.

Tamlin took a while to register that. But surely, Lucien soon felt the weight of his gaze shifted back onto his back. Where it stayed, unblinking.

And so minutes glided by. 

Sunlight filtered through the empty window frames, sketching the ever shifting outlines of the clouds on the cracked checkered floor. Lucien fancied seeing their silver linings. 

The High Lord sat on his throne, his best friend at its feet. Too far to feel each other's warmth. Together, but as if miles and ages aparat. 

And ages seemed to have passed before Tamlin finally asked, "What are you doing?" 

"Pretty much the same as you."

The High Lord of the Spring Court had long considered his reply. "What." Not really a question — a bark was more like it. 

"You tell me."

"I'm High Lord. Get out."

"Care to show the way?" Anger would be better than this — this void. Anything would be better.

No matter the price. 

But silence answered him again.

Then Tamlin sighed — the single most natural thing he'd done so far. There was such exhaustion in that sigh, such anguish and guilt and despair, that Lucien's chest caved. Again. It hurt, at this point.

Still, it was progress. 

"What do you want me to do, Lucien?" Came Tamlin's whispered plea. "What can I even do?!" 

"Bathe. Eat. Sleep." Ostensibly composed, Lucien counted the tasks on his fingers. "We can think of the rest later."

Tamlin attempted a terse laugh — it came dangerously close to a sob, though. But he did not act further — nor did he speak again. In the desolation of the ruined receiving hall, Lucien could hear his strained breathing, his strong but irregular heartbeat.

Eventually, Tamlin made the decision. Clawed hands pushed against armrests, wood creaking in protest, and he rose from the throne, his movements tense. He seemed to hesitate, but at an encouraging nod from Lucien, slowly walked down the dais and out through the mutilated doors. 

The High Lord even mumbled some reply to the greetings of the sentries standing watch outside. 

Lucien stayed. Unclenched his hands from fists and examined the fading bloody crescents his nails had left inside his palms. 

No, nothing was even close to all right. 

He took a moment to steady himself, gather his wits. A short one. 

There was much he needed to do.

* * *

A sudden knock at the door threw Lucien off focus. The Autumn courtier swore, swiftly lifting the quill away from the letter lest he ruin it completely. 

Honestly though, it could hardly become more of a mess. 

"Enter," he snapped at the door, not bothering to hide the annoyance in it, and set down the quill. 

He'd spent the past two hours cooped up in this abandoned study, having taken one look at the trophies adorning the High Lord's office and deciding against staying there a second longer than he truly needed. 

Besides, it would have sent an unwanted message. 

Servants had brought him food and drink a while before, hence exhausting the possibilities of further welcome botherers — for a few more hours at least. Tamlin was hopefully getting his much-needed sleep, and he wouldn't have knocked. 

A male in the uniform of the estate guard slipped into the room with a curt nod, gingerly closing the door behind him. 

The lock shut with a crisp _click_. 

Lucien's instincts flared. He jolted up in an instant, hand reaching for the sword he'd put aside—

"Peace." The sentry lifted his hands, empty palms up. As if it meant he couldn't draw a blade or two in a matter of heartbeats. 

That is, provided he dared.

People tended to believe — rather mistakenly — that the High Lord of the Autumn Court would mind it if any harm came to his irreverent youngest son. The son himself had obviously no business enlightening anyone as to the true state of affairs. 

Lucien set down his sword, although mindful to place the scabbard within easy reach. Crossing his arms, he summoned his best expression of disdainful tiredness — rather easy, given that tired he indeed was — and surveyed this new nuisance. 

Regrettably, he knew the male, both briefly and all too well. 

"Hadrian." Another nod — confirmation. Lucien could only sigh. "It's been a pleasant while." 

The one, and possibly only, officer in the whole guard that didn't take well to being bribed — Lucien stifled the urge to massage his ribs against the painful memory of learning that lesson — made a good show of looking embarrassed, scratching the back of his neck nervously. "Look, my apologies about that," he mumbled. "Lord." 

_Seriously?_

Lucien wasn't even mad as he lifted one brow at him. "What do you want?" 

"High Lord spoke with you. How is he?" 

So much for feigned diffidence — and breaking the ice. A step backward in the latter, actually, for despite his inherent fire, Lucien's blood had gone cold.

"Well enough," he replied carefully, moving back toward the desk. Absently, he brushed a piece of paper with his fingertips, as if eager to be back to work. 

No, he wasn't. 

But Hadrian snorted, easily assuming power over the mood. "Spare me, please." 

Russet eyes met his, unimpressed. "Go check on him if you don't trust me."

"The problem is," the sentry countered, although leaning back against the door rather than forward to intimidate, "That we're at the same side, lord Vanserra." His brown eyes narrowed. "And it is _you_ who doesn't trust me— us." 

"I trusted you with all I knew back at the gate." 

Not that it had been a leap of faith. Those spying for the Fountain Palace — either for the faction that wanted to manipulate Tamlin or the one advocating outright replacing him — would have known most of it anyway. 

"But you don't trust us with _him._ "

Lucien saw no point in denying that.

Hadrian sighed quietly. "Do you know why lord Taric died?"

The Suriel had been predictably enigmatic about the matter. "He meddled with life and death that weren't his to command," Lucien echoed its words. 

A surprised blink. "You… don't know precisely what happened." 

"No," Lucien admitted, his gaze iron cold. "I don't. But if you seek to trade that information for news on Tamlin's well-being, kindly go _fuck_ yourself." 

Hadrian flashed him a mirthless grin, but it dropped entirely when he launched his tale. 

The estate guard could do nothing but watch as lord Taric wrapped the grief-stricken High Lord around his finger, being so kind and helpful and et cetera slimy. Lucien easily believed Tamlin had been glad to let him run the manor, although the lordling and his cronies doubtless had sights on running the whole court. 

Starting with executing the inconvenient sentries. The honourable fools had been expecting that, if one believed Hadrian's words — and Lucien found he did, when the officer's loyalty ran deeper than Lucien's purse.

They have been expecting their own executions — they had seen their High Lord and his family die, after all, themselves spared by Rhysand and his daemati powers. And yet they had stayed. 

Honour, Lucien decided, was a madman's principle.

For when Taric gave the order, the estate guard had rebelled. That same honour, apparently, valued only death at the High Lord's hand, not that at some wannabe steward's orders. 

In the hassle, the lordling had fled back to the manor for help, assured of his position and Tamlin's compliance. Meanwhile, two sentries had lost their lives.

Whether it was their deaths or the falsehood in Taric's report or both that Tamlin had sensed, the land itself had trembled at the rage of the High Lord of the Spring Court.

 _It is his temper, not power, that the High Lord lost control of_ , the Suriel had said to the clicking of its fingers. _You knew, Starborn Boy. And yet you asked?_

"And I once deemed him weak," Hadrian was saying, awe in his voice. "I thought him a coward, there in the Night Court. Now I suppose he was the wisest of us," he concluded. 

"And yet he spared you." 

"Yes. Yes he did." Hadrian had clearly missed the barb. "I've seen you two together, lord Vanserra. I know you are a dear friend to him. That you have come to help. If you don't trust my loyalty to my High Lord, then trust that: I owe him my worthless life." 

They were only sentries, in the end. Humiliated and vanquished, yet unexpectedly forgiven. _Defended_ , if possibly accidentally, by the male who had every right and reason to take their heads. 

Lucien recalled Tamlin's slack expression, his empty, unfocused stare. "He's gone into shock, I believe," he said quietly. Shock of loss and pain and guilt. "We spoke, true, but— he wasn't himself. Or not really there in mind, rather… somewhere far away." 

In the windblown wastes of the far north. Or perhaps closer — at his mother's fresh grave.

"No orders then?" 

_Get out_. 

"No." None he cared to obey. 

"Then… Can I help you somehow — with whatever it is you're doing?" 

Lucien glanced at the list he'd made, scanned the unfinished letter, and cringed. "It couldn't hurt, I suppose."

* * *

Only in a court so drenched in violence as the Spring Court could an open murder serve to anyone's advantage. Yet Taric's untimely death had bought Tamlin a measure of respect at the Fountain Palace — a statement written in bright red that he wouldn't be ineptly manipulated, and a reminder to those opting for a new High Lord that the present one was still alive and kicking. 

Lucien knew he'd better make hay while the sun shone — a silly saying, when it usually entailed working late into the night. 

Thus, with Hadrian's help, they'd drafted and dispatched notes to the remaining notable factions of the Spring Court, setting dates for the traditional First Tithe and their requested hearings. 

Starting three days from now. 

Whether it would be enough time for Tamlin to recover was anyone's guess, but they had no means to buy more. Their makeshift regency would hold together only as long as the Palace's patience did. 

Hadrian wouldn't hear of forging Tamlin's signature, but they'd made the message in the letters crystal clear. 

Expectedly, not everyone could read with comprehension. 

No sooner had the sun crept fully above the cloud-marred horizon than a High Fae male finely dressed in a cobalt tunic and a matching foppish cape stormed into the manor, spitting furious already as his armed entourage had been halted at the gate. 

And found Lucien and Hadrian — who had been temporarily named the commander of the estate guard — half-sitting on the railing at the top of the wide main staircase, staring him down. 

The courtier halted, further unsettled by the utter lack of formality, but introduced himself nevertheless. Not that Lucien cared. 

"I seek an audience with the High Lord," the male announced, stepping forward— however, the attempt at confidence took a stumble over the cracked floor along with him. 

Hadrian snorted. 

So far, it was going splendidly. 

"The High Lord," Lucien informed the courtier, "is resting." 

His opponent quickly regained balance and composure. "Oh? Since not giving a damn about his court must be quite exhausting?"

Lucien nearly hissed at the audacity. "Funerals and disposing of traitorous pieces of shit certainly are. Although I'm certain Tamlin will fit you in his schedule if you keep insisting." 

His opponent bristled. "And why would an Autumn subject be speaking for him? Who do you think you are, anyway?" 

"Please raise any objections with the High Lord personally," Hadrian chimed in, as previously instructed. 

"At your scheduled time, which stands to be postponed," Lucien added. His was the killing blow, too: easing to his feet, he waved one arm in the general direction of Tamlin's room in an overblown gesture of invitation. "Or, actually, anytime you wish." 

The courtier hesitated. Considered. They could smell it all the way up: mouthing off to guard nobodies was one thing, but Lyandel had ruled with a heavy hand for centuries, and for all they knew, his son could be even worse.

Intruding upon the High Lord's rest didn't seem like such a great idea anymore. With an undignified harrumph, the Spring courtier turned and stuttered out of the manor, foppish cape billowing behind him. 

And good riddance.

Lucien turned to Hadrian, a grin of triumph creeping onto his lips— but the sentry wasn't looking at him. No, the male's wide-eyed stare was fixed at something in the corridor behind Lucien. 

He spun around— 

It was enormous.

A beast of golden fur and horns and fangs and claws, a bear and wolf and neither. Greater than both, far greater than before. Tall as a horse — those elk-like horns almost scratched the ceiling as it moved, sunlight rippling on its glossy sides. 

Despite the instinctual terror the beast form stirred, despite— or maybe because of the palpable power of wind and life emanating from him… 

He was magnificent. 

The High Lord of the Spring Court. 

Hadrian even fell to his knees. 

Yet regardless of the shadows still plaguing those gold-flecked green eyes, even if he'd shifted, for whatever reason, it was still him. Still Tamlin. 

"Morning," Lucien said, not subduing his smile of relief. Perhaps, just maybe, they could figure things out from now. 

But his friend only snarled at him, "What—" He made another feline step forward. "Do you think—" The growl reverberated through the air, "—you're doing?"

Lucien raised his hands placatingly. "I'm keeping things under control." He cast a glance towards the open door. "You wanted to speak with him?"

" _IT WAS NOT YOUR DECISION TO MAKE!_ "

The roar shook the walls, one of the few surviving vases falling and shattering somewhere. Lucien took a step back, nearly stumbling over the stairs. He swallowed hard. "Calm down, please." Gentle, soothing words. "I can yet send for him, if you wish. We didn't know you were awake."

A growl. 

"Tam, stop it, please. You were in no shape to speak with anyone yesterday — and I don't think you're now."

Green eyes narrowed, fur rippling in their corners — suspicion, that was suspicion and distrust swirling in them. A massive paw brushed the floor, claws gouging the marble with a nerve-wrecking screech. 

"Tamlin, you _know_ I meant no harm." The moment these words left Lucien's mouth, doubt settled in. 

" _Lucien!_ " 

Three things happened simultaneously as Hadrian shouted his warning: spooked, Lucien moved backward— _down_ the stairs; missed a step and tripped over the next, and that beast of claws and fangs and fury — it pounced on him. 

The pain and shock of falling drowned in the thunderous crash of breaking marble. Lucien's frantic heartbeat in turn drowned out the following staccato of falling debris. 

Dust was settling slowly. 

Up ahead, the golden beast stood statue-still, teeth bared. A monument of violence, of dominance, of primal strength. 

Lucien pushed up onto his knees, ignoring the pain of forming bruises. Took the scene in. 

And saw the shattered marble under Tamlin's front paws, saw the destruction those claws buried deep into the rubble had inflicted in a matter of heartbeats. 

He saw — and wasn't sure. If they would have missed him. 

Tamlin growled at him again, long and vicious. There was nothing familiar in it, nothing familiar in his simmering emerald eyes. No trace of the male Lucien knew, had befriended, had grown to love like a brother when none of his six blooded brothers deserved it. 

"You _snake_ ," Tam— the beast spoke, stepping over the rubble and down, towards him. "That's what it was for. _All those years._ " A mad, grating laugh. "I ever wondered. What is it that you wanted from me."

Each hateful word was a blow. 

Lucien barely registered the tears of hurt and fear welling in his eyes, the quaver in his voice. "You know that's not true." 

But Tamlin— the beast— did not. 

The instinct to flee overrode Lucien's will then; his power shot out, _out_ and away— and slammed into a slick wall of magic.

The manor was warded against winnowing.

His mouth ran dry upon the realisation, dry like ash, like desert sand, like the dust still falling. 

The beast inched closer.

"Tamlin, please." 

" _Liar."_ Its upper lip curled further up, exposing those sharp, sharp fangs. " _LIAR._ "

" _Please,_ " he rasped. " _Please,_ let me explain." 

But even before those words sounded, that part of his mind detached from the panic, the fear, the hurt— it knew the reply that never came. 

And it stifled everything else. 

Lucien closed his eyes. Let it spread inside his heart, his soul — the silence. Let himself think, even as he wondered, vaguely, if he might die here. 

_I can now flee fast enough._

The Suriel had smiled then. Had known. _Do, and your blood will not be spilled,_ it'd said. It had known he wouldn't be able to. Unless—

There used to be loopholes. Exceptions encoded in the wards for the High Lord's kin. 

And transfer of a spell always weakened it. 

He cast his power around once more, and there it was. A purchase in the slick blackness, a crack, a fissure, although way too narrow— Lucien grasped at it with his magic, clawed, burned through it with all he had.

On the outside, he was still kneeling where he fell, breath tight in his chest, eyes burning with tears closed as his death neared. 

He registered it all, somehow: Hadrian calling for his High Lord to wait. Broken marble crunching and shifting under massive paws as the call was ignored. The agitated power that was roiling and swirling and churning— and none of it mattered.

Perhaps it was a test. 

Perhaps he would fail it by trusting a cryptic monster over his best friend.

Perhaps he was just a coward. 

"Tam, I'm sorry," Lucien whispered as a blinding white light flashed. The impaired wards gave in. 

And he was gone.

* * *

Bright sunlight made the thousand colours of autumn woods refract into a dozen different hues each. The multi-faceted scent of loam and decay filled the air, a gentle wind yet whispering about the cold of the night. 

The soft earth was too damp with melted rime to notice his falling tears, the wildlife too loud and busy to mind his quiet sobs. 

His back against the rough bark of an ancient oak tree, tears trailing down his face, Lucien willed the silence in his mind to last a moment longer. 

For a moment longer, it indulged him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. A month, precisely. And I'm sorry it turned out like this.
> 
> I have struggled with this chapter for weeks. I replanned and rewrote the early paragraphs three times. So while it might not be my best chapter ever written, I'm proud I did it.
> 
> And thank you, Amy. I would have given up without you.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction ever, as well as the first thing possibly qualifying as writing I've created in English. Hence please have NO mercy on me if I make any sort of linguistic errors. 
> 
> Any feedback is welcome!


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